


Retribution in Havana

by IncognitoQC



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, BDSM, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Consensual Violence, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Pet Play, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Power Imbalance, Top Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 02:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17357534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncognitoQC/pseuds/IncognitoQC
Summary: Hannibal and Will have recovered from their battle with the dragon, and their tumble over the bluff. Now living together on a private beach in Havana, the two men must figure out what they mean to one another, and how they can coexist without falling into old habits.Repeating patterns can be warning signs, they're done repeating.





	Retribution in Havana

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based upon my own headcanon for after the season three finale of NBC's Hannibal television series. However many of these early chapters was co-written via a roleplay, and as such were co-authored.

                                Retribution in Havana

                               Chapter One

                Sleep. Once upon a time a long lasting nightmare; to sleep, per chance to dream… to dream was but a nightmare. For two long years there was no such thing as a peaceful sleep, only the dreaded nightmares that found him his voice, and woke the dormitories with his crying. It was only in his late teen hood that he found some semblance of peace. But even then, he did not require as much sleep as the average person; later he discovered that it was because he had a very interesting genetic superpower—mutation—that over produced specific chemicals making him function at a higher than normal level even only on three or four hours of sleep.

Deep restful sleep was not something that Hannibal Lecter the VIII often experienced; when he was quite young he rarely slept more than a few hours at a time. And during his incarceration he had mostly slept throughout the day in order to inconvenience the likes of Bloom, Chilton, and any visitors hoping to gape and gawk at him.

But now, far away from that cell, and those people, and Baltimore, Hannibal found that he couldn’t quite resist the gentle lure of sleep.

            His eyes fluttered open, only bleary for a second or two before clearing, focus growing sharp. The first thing that his gaze lighted upon was the gentle fluttering of the white curtains at the balcony window; they had taken to leaving the windows open throughout the night, to take advantage of the cooler air, and give it time to circulate throughout the house. By noontime they would have to close them to preserve and protect themselves from the heat of the day.

            Unlike Hannibal, who took quite well to sleep, his housing companion, Will Graham found himself falling more often into the routines of old habits—specifically, he would fall into the bottom of a bottle, drinking to excess whenever time permitted it, and they had an over abundance where time was concerned.

Of course, Will didn’t drink to get drunk—though there certainly was some of that—how could there not be when he was still having to come to terms with the fact that he was on the run; not just on the run, but on the run with the one person he had allowed so deeply into his life that they had nearly destroyed each other; on multiple occasions.

Still, on mornings such as this, he did enjoy just a couple fingers of that cool amber as he lounged against the railing of their front porch, drinking in the bourgeoning sunlight and the gentle calm as the day itself awakened; a subtle warmth swathed in a light chill from the night, gradually chased away as the sun stirred from its slumber. There was a period of pleasant coolness just before the daylight stretched high overhead that he couldn't help but quietly appreciate, particularly after a night of tossing and turning in restless recollection of battering waves and frost that cut and carved as brutal as hot knives against his skin.

He paid little mind to the open door behind him -- there was really no reason to bother when they kept the windows open so often, anyway, and if nothing else, it was a good enough indication of his location, should Hannibal awake, and wonder as to where he was. Not that that was particularly necessary.

From behind him he heard the squeak of wood; the stairs that lead up to the bedroom creaked on the third step from the top, indicating that Hannibal was awake.

           

            Hannibal descended the stairs with care, mindful of his leg, which tended to stiffen up over the night. When he reached the landing he glanced in the direction of the open front door, but moved on past to the kitchen.

            In the beginning, when they had first arrived in their current dwelling, Hannibal had been a touch wary of Will’s tendency to wake before him, wondering if the younger man would take advantage of his vulnerability while he slept--like he had taken advantage at the bluff, when he had pushed them over the edge and into the unforgiving ocean.

Admittedly he would have had more than prime opportunity. Hannibal had taken more damage than Will in the fall, and his recovery had been prolonged Will could have easily taken advantage of their imbalance of power, while Hannibal was still bedridden.

            He pulled the bag of coffee grounds from the cupboard and began the process of preparing the morning coffee. He had begun to adjust to Will’s morning routine, and no longer woke in the morning in a barely contained panic; if Will were going to kill him, he was certain that he would want Hannibal to see it coming.

Crossing back from the sink, he winced while he filled the coffee maker with water, his knee aching worse than usual; Hannibal had tended the injury as best he could, but he was beginning to accept that it would just never be the same—he wasn’t a young man anymore—and he would likely have to rely on medication to keep the ache down if he ever wished to stand up on his own in a fight again.

Will glanced towards the doorway as he heard the stirrings of movement inside, but he made no move to retreat indoors right away. Rather, he turned his attention back to the horizon where the sun had begun to rise above the ocean, the sprawling sand alight in a glittering, golden glow flecked with gemstone colors from the seashells littered across the low dunes crested in white where light refracted in silvered hues. He languorously polished off the last few sips of whiskey at the bottom of his glass, and loitered there on the porch for several moments longer once he was finished, before finally pushing himself from the sand-dusted balustrade and sauntering indoors, shutting the door behind him with a muted click.

Only then did he meander towards the kitchen, idly setting his glass upon the island counter with a smooth slide of glass upon cold marble, before at last setting his gaze upon the line of Hannibal's shoulders, distantly noting the man's discomfort with a quirk of his brow.

           "Still bothering you?" He inquired dully, forgoing usual morning greetings as he idly twisted the empty glass upon the counter with a slow turn of his wrist. "Should really consider having that looked at. Can't hurt to have a second opinion."

Hannibal snorted as he turned the coffee maker on, and let the sound of gurgling and hissing fill the space between them. "It is not a lack of proper care, or proper doctoring, but rather multiple injuries within the last handful of years taking their toll." He sighed, crossing to the cupboard and pulling a cup down--his side still twinged every once in awhile, but for the most part he'd healed relatively well--better than he'd expected. "I am not a young man, and this leg has been severely injured several times, the bone and muscle just can't bounce back the way it used to. I must accept that." Hannibal leaned his hands on the counter, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, and looked up at Will. The warmer weather was doing them both some good, and Will's skin glowed with the evidence of it. "Tell me Will, did you sleep well?"

 Will exhaled once through his nostrils, a bit louder than was entirely necessary, before offering a shallow shrug and allowing the subject to drop. Far be it for him to argue with an ex-doctor when it came to medical needs, even if he didn't entirely agree with his assessment. Sure, they were getting older, he wasn't incorrect, but he still thought that a second opinion might not be the worst idea. Still, it was too early to go head-to-head with Hannibal-levels of stubbornness.

Relinquishing his hold upon the glass, he leaned back against the counter's edge to fully face the other, his elbows coming up to rest upon the surface at his back as he canted his head almost imperceptibly to one side and silently considered potential answers to that question. Eventually, however, he decided that simple was better, and with a tilt of his chin, he answered, "About as well as usual."

Hannibal nodded subtly, busying himself by pulling the sugar and cream from the nook under the coffee maker. They both suffered from dreams--a relatively new development for Hannibal--and neither much spoke about it; Hannibal asked out of habit, and curiosity--he was still so curious about Will--never mentioning his own sometimes trouble sleep.

Typically, unless Will actively woke him with sounds of distress caused by nightmares, Hannibal didn't push the subject--Will was entitled to his privacy.

The breeze carried throughout the house by the open windows sang of the ocean, salty and cool, and mixed subtly with the steadily rising smell of the coffee beans as they brewed. Hannibal took it all in, enjoying the scents he'd become familiar with, only slightly tinged with the scent of the whiskey.

When they'd first begun this strange cohabitation, both injured, weak, nervous stressed and strained, Hannibal had almost commented about Will's habit of morning drinking, but he'd bit his tongue. It would have caused more harm than good, and since Hannibal had mostly elected to ignore it, though it was no secret he disliked it.

The younger man had always tended towards the sauce—like father like son—though he had never been a drunk. Even now, Hannibal wouldn’t consider him a drunk, though it was getting very close.

Will watched Hannibal in silence for a spell, neither of them seeming to say anything, despite the fact that the atmosphere felt loaded with questions unasked and answers left unspoken, and Will couldn't help but feel at times as though he were waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was fairly certain, however, that the other was doing much the same, and either of them could solve the issue by starting that conversation, and yet neither of them were taking that step. It certainly wasn't as though Will were unaware of the others dislike for his particular habits or those unspoken curiosities, but neither was he prepared to yield answers to that which went unrequested. Not that he was even sure that he had the answers to begin with. In fact, at times, he felt as though he was wondering those same things of himself; two halves of his own mind divided by uncertainty and self-deprecation.

It wasn't until the gurgle and belch of the coffee maker began to taper off into small clicks and fizzes that he reached one hand upwards to smear upon his face, rubbing his thumb and forefinger's knuckle against the lids of his eyes as he exhaled a sigh before he looked away, hand dropping to his side as his gaze fell to the pot of freshly brewed coffee.

            "What about you?" Will asked at last, continuing the vague spurt of conversation that had been left to the wayside as though it had only then occurred to him that he hadn't yet returned the question, pushing forward from the counter to pull a mug from the cupboard, if only for something new to do with his hands.

Hannibal poured himself a cup, and then poured a cup for Will, shifting aside to permit better access to the counter. He stirred in a spoonful of sugar and a spoonful of cream into his coffee; once upon a time he would have only taken it black, but now he longed for something sweeter. Setting the spoon aside when he was finished, he then slid around to the other edge of the counter, and cradled the warm mug between his hands.

He pondered the question; often times, even if he could not recall the dreams he had off right, if he focused long enough he could drag them back up from his subconscious--he didn't often exercise the ability, his dreams were not often pleasant.

            "Pleasant enough." He answered after he'd taken the first hot sweet sip of coffee, enjoying the burn against his tongue and the tender inside of his lips. "I dreamed I was in France, long ago, long before I ever traveled to America."

            "A memory of better times?" Will inquired, although it didn't sound entirely like a question. If anything, there might have been a subtle note of accusation there, although the quietly murmured 'thanks' as the other poured him a serving of coffee sounded akin to an apology for any bitterness that might have soured his tongue. He swiftly added a splash of coffee to his mug, more to cool the boiling liquid than for flavor, before taking a spoon from the cutlery drawer to stir with. He did so with a thoughtful languor, before thumbing the handle of the spoon against the edge of the mug and lifting the beverage to his lips, breathing in the cloud of trailing steam without actually taking a drink. Instead, he let the mug hover in front of his mouth, savoring the warmth of the porcelain against his palms for the time being, and then asked, "What were you doing, there?"

Hannibal wouldn't have elaborated if Will hadn't asked, and now he found he didn't really mind answering Will's questions; the time of eluding, dancing around half truths, and spinning colorful lies had passed. There would be no hiding truths from Will if he desired them--not for long anyway. Hannibal took another sip of his coffee, rolling the flavor of it across his tongue before answering.

               "I was a young boy, only thirteen at the time, and I was sending roses made of orange peels floating across a morning pond." He replied steadily, eyes distant, recalling the fragmented painted memories of dreams. "I was watching young swans play with the flowers of my design, listening to the songs of Japanese autumn crickets, and recalling a poem." He blinked and lifted his mug again, lips hovering near the rim, "I've quite forgotten it now." A lie, but he didn't have the heart to speak the poem aloud.

Will hummed thoughtfully at that. "I wasn't aware you were capable of forgetting anything," he mused aloud, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards almost imperceptibly, even if he only half-believed that. He was Hannibal, after all, although he was still only human. In theory, at least. "Why orange peels?" He continued, brows arched slightly to maintain his gaze upon the other as his head bowed lower, mouth folding upon the edge of his mug for a slow pull of coffee, which he allowed to sit upon his tongue for several moments to savor the rich, aromatic flavor of it before allowing it to travel the length of his throat in a swallow.

                  "My aunt would set oranges and flowers to float in her baths. We would arrange flowers together. My subconscious must have simply intermixed the two memories." Hannibal mused. "She was the only family I had at the time, my uncle died before I turned fourteen."

The mention of his uncle gave him a bitter-sweet twang; all of his uncles artwork was scattered, the single piece he'd managed to find he'd left behind in Baltimore. "The earlier years in France with my aunt were some of the happiest times of my life." He concluded simply, finishing his coffee with two gulps, not tasting any of it. He crossed to the sink, and rinsed out the mug, setting it upside down in the drain.

                 "I won't bother asking how you know what your aunt's bathing habits were like," Will answered, his tone caught somewhere between curiosity and disbelief, before he took another sip from his mug and lowered the drink, cradling it in front of him. He seemed at a loss for how to respond, then. He considered offering his sympathy for his Uncle's passing, but that was so long ago that it might sound like an empty sentiment meant to be said and heard by normal people, which they definitely were not.

Hannibal smiled at Will's tone, and waved a dismissive hand.

                  "I accidently spied her my first night living in their home, drawn to the sound of music--Chiyoh would play for her when she bathed. It was an accident, and only happened once." Not a lie.

Will turned the mug between his hands, if only for something to do with them, before continuing, "Is your aunt still around?"

                "She passed away nearly a decade ago now," he mused, looking thoughtful, "she was buried and honored on her families property, I visited her grave only once. That was when Chiyoh returned to Europe, and where I left her."

Will issued a soft chuckle at that, a faint and fluttering sound, as though relieved and embarrassed by his brief concern in equal parts, as he offered a shallow bow of his head.                   "Live music and orange peels. Sounds... luxurious. Makes my own ritual of self-cleaning seem more akin to a necessary chore by comparison," he mused aloud with a half-shrug, bringing his drink up for another sip, and then as if as an afterthought, he downed the remainder of the beverage and collected his empty whiskey glass to place both within the sink.

He hesitated a moment, then, before glancing back towards Hannibal with a somewhat more somber expression, exhaling once more through his nose. "I am sorry for your loss, however." He paused a beat, before offering quietly, "I do wonder, sometimes, whether my father has learned of my... disappearing act, yet, and all that entails. What conclusions he's drawn, by now."

                 "He was emotionally closed off if I recall," Hannibal pondered, looking back at Will who was now standing much closer, returning the somber look, "but he cared deeply for you. I hope your disappearance will cause him no undo stress." Hannibal confessed with a slight bow of his head.

As close as they stood, the smell of coffee and whisky was strong, but Hannibal could also smell the shorter man's natural scent beneath the ivory soap they shared in the single bathroom. Hannibal never took moments like these--where they stood in each other's space--for granted, he couldn't afford to. Sometimes, Hannibal longed to take Will's wrist, request he stay, loathing the moment when he'd step away, but he never did.

Will gave a curt nod at that, exhaling all of the oxygen within his lungs all at once, then, as though he'd been holding it for an extended period of time, although, to his knowledge, he had not been. "Strange that I've never felt the need to speak to him unprompted before, and yet, now knowing that I never can, he's taken up residence in the corner of my mind. Not always in my line of sight, but lingering there in the peripheral. A phantom, waiting in the quiet."

He raised both hands then, rubbing again at his face and feeling the lingering warmth from the mug upon them, rings of heat warming the skin of his cheeks, before dropping his arms to his sides once more. And as if only realizing their proximity, then, did he turn his chin slightly to one side, just barely avoiding Hannibal's gaze. "Then again, there's a lot of clutter up there, right now. There usually is."

Hannibal turned his own face away slightly, gaze lidded as he looked at the cupboards on the other side of the kitchen--not taking in the slightly worn and cracked paint--or the way rainbow light spread across the white paint as the sun hit the chime outside the kitchen window at just the right angle.

                 "I'm sorry Will." Hannibal said quietly, pushing away from the sink and moving away--he often moved away first, not able to stand the feeling of being so close and yet so far apart--heading back towards the hallway. He never said it allowed, but they both knew it, if Will wanted to leave, he could, Hannibal wouldn't stop him--couldn't stop him. And, as of that moment, that warming Havana morning, Will could return to the life he'd had, spin a tail of being the victim, and perhaps only lose his reputation.

                  "Don't," he answered, the word nearly overlapping Hannibal's with how quickly he'd responded, neat and clipped as his eyes shot back towards the other and his chin inclined slightly. "Don't apologize to me for my own decisions," he continued, his hand lurching forward marginally as if to stop the other from leaving, and then, thinking better of it, he simply curled his fingers lightly into his palm and offered a short shake of his head -- just once in each direction. "I don't regret coming with you. I may... regret not severing ties as cleanly as I could, first. I may regret many things. But this is not one of them. So don't. Just... don't."

Hannibal paused and listened in the doorway of the kitchen, letting the words wash over him as Will spoke; he wished that the words were more assuring, more comforting--but Hannibal didn't dare let them soothe him--wished that he could accept them; he nodded his ascent when Will had finished.

                    "I'm going to shower and dress, and then I will start on breakfast." He stated simply before turning and climbing the stairs steadily, the third step from the top creaking loudly.

Will's jaw tightened as the other left, and he stared for several long moments into the empty space that Hannibal had occupied, and continued to do so until he'd at last heard the clang of movement through the pipes in the walls, followed by the distant spray of water.

He inhaled slowly, deeply, before finally he finally turned back towards the sink to rinse off the glasses under the faucet, and then as an afterthought before placing them to dry, he toweled off his lowball glass and took up the whiskey on his way to the living room once more.

Old habits died hard, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
